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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap.„.„..._ Copyright No. 



ShelfiZi 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/oldpatroonotherpOOconn 



THE OLD PATROON 



AND OTHER PLAYS 



/ 



BY 

GEORGE STANISLAUS CONNELL 



NEW YORK 

WILLIAM H. YOUNG & COMPANY 

1899 

L- , 






gn 



29295 

Copyright, 1899, by 
GEORGE STANISLAUS CONNELL, 




Warning :— The right to act these plays Is 

withheld. Legal redress will be sought 
for their presentation without the 
author's consent. 






CONTENTS. 



PAGB 

The Old Patroon, Comedy 3 

A TRILOGY IN MINIATURE : 

My Youngster's Love Affair, Comedy 55 

The Guardian Angel^ Melodrama 77 

The Mild Monomaniac, Farce. . , .-; , 91 



THE OLD PATROON, 



CHARACTERS. 

Gerrit Van x\lst, ''ihe Old Pair oon.'^ 

Dirk Van Wie, burgher. 

Captain Glen, a young officer. 

Master Barlow, of New York. 

'Zekiel, negro servant. 

Mistress Matty, a7i English maiden. 

Dame Marian, her mother. 

Dame Louisa, Matty s aunt. 

Judy, wife of 'ZekieL 

Townspeople, etc. 

Scene, Schenectady ; 

Period, about 1730 ; 

Time for representation, one hour. 



THE OLD PATROON. 



Scene — A street in the outskirts of an old 
Dutch-colonial town. House, LC, with low " stoop " 
having a narrow seat either side of doorway. 
Half-doors. Flower garden hidden by hedge, RC. 
Large tree with bench encircling it, R. 

Enter Gerrit Van Alst and *Zekiel. 

'Zekiel. Massa Gerrit, 'jes* yo' lean 
all yo' weight on dis yere chile ; I'se 
ony a brack nigger, an* Fse a'gittin* 
ole, but my legs is mos' better dan a 
flea's. An' yo' 'member, Massa Ger- 
rit, yo' say I'se de on'y heart dat lub 
yo' now. 

Gerrit Van Alst. That's true, 
boy ; and when we oust these English 
robbers, and the good old stock of New 
Amsterdam comes into its own again 

3 



4 THE OLD PATROON. 

you shall have a fine blue livery all 
trimmed with Dutch galloon straight 
from old Holland. Now fetch the 
grub-ax and tend the flowers a little. 
I can't afford to waste so much time 
over them. 

'Zekiel. Is yo' a'gwine to let yo* 
flowers die, Massa Gerrit ? 

Gerrit Van Alst. Not a bit of 
it ! And mind you keep them as well 
as they are now ! But down there on 
the Green to-day the town will put me 
in office for another year, and it is 
about time I gave up playing with 
flowers as any child might. 'Zekiel, 
you don't know what ambition is, my 
boy. 

'Zekiel. Oh, yis I does, Massa ! 

Gerrit Van Alst. Hey-diddle- 
diddle ! You have no ambition, 'Zekiel. 

'Zekiel. Yis I hab, Massa ! 

Gerrit Van Alst. What is it ? 

'Zekiel. Wull, it jes' dis way. You 



THE OLD PATROON. 5 

know Judy am a^gittin* ole an* sup- 
perammunated, an' she hab* a misery 
in 'e back mos' de whole time, an' yo* 
'Zekiel always take ambition on po' 
sick folk — 'specially when de folks be 
he own 'ooman. Judy say I hab mo' 
ambition she nebber did see, fur I tuk 
de chores right out of um harnds yister- 
day an' scrub de big iron kittle, an' 
druv ole Mistis Verveelen geese out de 
kibbage patch, an' swep' out de cock- 
loft. An' Fse a'gwine to do all de 
fixin' an' fussin' right 'long now, an' 
Judy she kin jes' sit 'roun' an' tek care 
o' hersel' like 's if she war a lady. She 
di'n't want let me doit, but at de eend 
she promise, an' I say ** Swar ! " an' 
she say ** Lordy gracious ! " Oh yis, 
dere be a heap o' ambition in yo' 'Zekiel 
ole heart, Massa Gerrit. 

Gerrit Van Alst. Well, if you 
take to cooking and burn by suppawn, 
you'll suffer for it. Go along now and 



6 THE OLD PATROON. 

get me my pipe ; I'll take a nap here 
on the stoop. 

{Exit 'Zekiel into house. 

Townspeople pass R to L, saluting. 

Enter DiRK Van Wie, R) 

Dirk Van Wie. Guten dag, Excel- 
lency. May I valk vid you down to 
der Green for der elegtions ? Dose 
poys vould fire de old demi-culverin 
dat vas captured from de French, und 
I vould consult vid you how much of 
powder to put in id. 

Gerrit Van Alst. Fire the demi- 
culverin, Dirk? What for? Are there 
any French and Indians, — is there a 
mutiny ? 

Dirk Van Wie. Dey say dey joost 
vould celebrate der elegtions. 

Gerrit Van Alst. Humbug, Dirk ! 
Do they know how much that foolish 
firing would cost, and how many wolves 
they could shoot with the powder if 
they put it into their muskets? 



THE OLD PATROON. 7 

Dirk Van Wie. I told dem so, 
Excellency, but dey joost maagd a 
choke at me, und vould know if I vas 
gedding old und useless now. 

Gerrit Van Alst. They're getting 
old themselves ! And they never were 
anything but useless ! 

Dirk Van Wie. Und some of dose 
English gallants maagd fun aboud our 
good Dutch prayers for de blessing of 
Heaven over de elegtions. 

Gerrit Van Alst. Donner ! Dirk 
Van Wie, you tell those runagates that 
I forbid their firing the culverin — I, 
Gerrit Van Alst. And if they want to 
blaspheme or to ridicule our good old 
customs tell them they can go to their 
own Albany, where they'll have plenty 
of their own upstart kind to appreciate 
them. And wait — if they say again 
that you are growing old and useless — 
just come to me and I'll make you the 
town's rate assessor for five years. 



8 THE OLD PATROON. 

Dirk Van Wie. Your Excellency 
viU not gum to der elegtions ? 

Gerrit Van Alst. No, Dirk ; the 
old wound in my knee has rebelled 
against parading and speech-making 
to-day. But tell the boys to abide by 
the laws, for if there's turbulence I'll 
hear of it, and, Dutch or English, the 
culprit shall pay ! 

{Exit Dirk Van Wie, Z. 

'ZEKIEL/^^i* meanwhile returned with 

the pipe) 

Gerrit Van Alst. Come, 'Zekiel, 
my boy, what's the matter with that 
coal ? you're slow getting a light to-day. 

'Zekiel. Dat so, Massa Gerrit. I'se 
ony a po' ole nigger, — but ef yo' jes* 
wanted yo' could git some nice white 
pusson could light a pipe wi' dey eye 
jes' as quick as a wink. 

Gerrit Van Alst. What is that, 
'Zekiel ? Light a pipe with their eyes ? 

'Zekiel. Yis, Massa Gerrit, an' warm 



THE OLD PATROON. 9 

yo* all up wi* de light from dem — dey 
is eyes like dat, Massa Gerrit. An' yo' 
could hab de pick o'dem allef yo' ony 
say so. 

Gerrit Van Alst. You mean I 
should marry, eh 'Zekiel? Now, why 
have you said that so often the last few 
years ? 

'Zekiel. Wull, Massa Gerrit, in de 
bible dat yo' read for me an' Judy 
ebery night all de folks of any 'count 
hab got married when dey done git ole 
enough. Dere's Adam, he hab a v/ife 
when he done got ole enough, an* 
Abram, he hab a wife when he done 
got ole enough, an' Jacob, he hab a 
wife when he done got ole enough, an' 
dey war all 'spec'able folks. But de 
bible don' say Esau hab any wife, an' 
he sole he birfday fur a mass o' potash, 
an' it don' say Cain hab any wife, an' 
he kill 'um brudder. Now, Massa Ger- 
rit, yd done got ole enough. 



lO THE OLD PATROON. 

Gerrit Van Alst, {laughing), 'Ze- 
kiel, rm not old enough, and you can't 
make me believe I am. If Tm a little 
forgetful now and again that's only 
natural, considering all I have to occupy 
my thoughts, — and this old wound 
doesn't trouble me often. No, 'Zekiel, 
I need no one but you and Judy to take 
care of me ; and as for bright eyes to 
light my pipe with, listen and I'll dream 
aloud for you a little of the past : 
Beside our old Dutch church, long, long 

ago, 
— Perhaps the belfry swallows yet re- 
member, — 
A noisy youngster burst upon the 

world 
With shouts of boyish glee and mad 

bravado. 
An only child, he ruled the little house- 
hold. 
Taxing an angel-mother's love and 
kisses 



THE OLD PATROON. II 

With spendthrift confidence. And as 

he grew, 
Schenectady's old burghers at their 

pipes 
Talked proudly of his future for the 

state. 
Some fifty years agone our bowling 

green 
Saw him acclaimed a schepen of the 

town, 
And, half in sport, old Jan Van Tien- 

hoven 
Planted the tented elm that stands 

there now, 
Saying that as it grew to shield and 

shade, 
So should the day's young hero serve 

the state. 
In time the English came. New Am- 
sterdam — 
New York, as they would dub it, — fed 

its eyes 
On scarlet vest and pretty petticoat, 



12 THE OLD PATROON. 

And old Schenectady, good, loyal 

Dutch, 
Sent there her chosen son to plead her 

cause. — 
I know not, *Zekiel, if love be blind. 
As heathen poets tell us, but a lover 
Is rebel to all law save love alone. 
And so, although the British blood and 

Dutch 
Were meant to mingle but as air and 

water, 
A fair young English maid with April 

eyes 
Of ever-changing passion won the 

heart 
Schenectady alone had right to rule. 

*Zekiel. An' dat war you, Mass' 

Gerrit? 

Gerrit Van Alst. Yes, 'twas I. 

'Zekiel. But ef yo' lubbed her so 

why din't yo' tell her dat she could 

marry yo' ? 

Gerrit Van Alst. Ah, 'Zekiel, 



THE OLD PATROON. I 3 

boy, I loved her dearly, — love unwary, 
lavish. — She took a red-coat captain for 
her husband and sailed beyond the seas. 

'Zekiel. Wull, Massa Gerrit, ef she 
don'lub yo', — what yo' waiting fur? 

Gerrit Van Alst. 'Zekiel, I love 
her yet. — But enough ! A sentimental 
statesman is as big a failure as a timid 
soldier. Broken hearts will be mended 
in heaven, but on earth ambition's the 
sovereign balm — ambition ! To-day 
they're re-electing me a burgomaster 
of Schenectady. Next fall half the 
colony will hail me in the Assembly 
of New Amsterdam, and 'Zekiel, this 
time I'll go to fight — to fight for our old 
traditions and the rights of Nevv^ 
Netherland. Who knows, boy, there 
may be another Dutch governor be- 
fore many years ! God never meant 
the red-coats should prosper very long. 
They succeed sometimes — sometimes. 
But the Dutch are true and faithful, 



14 THE OLD PATROON. 

and ill Heaven — in Heaven— (/^//^ 
asleep). 

*Zekiel, {working over the flower- 
bed). In Heaben dey done got all de 
Dutch gubbernors, Massa, an* I 'low 
as how de English gubbernors'U hab 
to go — back again to England. Dutch 
gubbernors is a heap better, an* my ole 
Unc* Azra say he done see two Dutch 
gubbernors eat a whole ox at a bar- 
becue, all by himselves. (Gerrit Van 
Alst snores}) Yis, Massa, a whole ox, 
out-tekkin' de hoofs an* de horns. — 
Yaas, Massa, bible troof, 'fore de Lord ! 
— Wull, Massa Gerrit ! Ef yo* gwine 
be a'snoozin' an' a'snoozin' yo' ole 
'Zekiel hab no mo' to say ! 

{Exit 'Zekiel through 

garden. Enter, R, Matty, Barlow 

and Capt. Glen, marching,) 

Capt. Glen, {marking the step). 

Hep ! Hep ! Hep ! — Indeed, Mistress 

Matty, your rustic cavalier is too am- 



THE OLD PATROON. 1 5 

bitious. {Airily^ though with habitual 
drawl}) Had he been born under Mars 
instead of somewhere beneath the 
Great Bear we could all put the right 
foot forward together without his awk- 
ward pause spoiling the step. {To 
Barlow.) Your method of progression, 
my young friend, is imperfect, and if 
you would abate the heavenly rolling 
of your eyes and the infernal rolling of 
your gait you would remind us less of 
a cork in a duck-pond. I trust for 
your sake that those soulful glances are 
all lost, for such a deal of good looks 
must certainly damn your ill favor! 

yiKY'YY .{laughifig). In truth. Captain 
Glen, that is rare advice ! Master Bar- 
low is merely colonial-bred, and so his 
manners smell of hay-time rather than 
''Hep!" time! 

'Q A.K'LO^^iw it h i7tjured dignity). You 
proffered me the honor, Mistress Matty, 
to escort you to the Green. 



l6 THE OLD PATROON. 

Matty. What ! Master Barlow, are 
your manners as bad as that ! Mistress 
Matilda is my name, so please you. 

Barlow, {bitterly). Pray overlook 
my freedom, for in view of our eight 
months' acquaintance in New York my 
privilege seemed no less than his you Ve 
hardly seen-~at least, so I thought. 

Matty, {derisively). Think again. 
Master Barlow ! 

Capt. Glen. Don't think so any 
more, Master Barlow ! And now. Mis- 
tress Matty, may I escort you ? And, 
sir, when youVe learned your lesson of 
colonial respect, acquired some polish, 
and attained a greater legal eminence 
than you now enjoy you may find us 
more indulgent, feel us less critical and 
hear us say, without an incredulous 
smile, '* Your Honor'' ! 

Barlow, {angrily). Is my honor 
your jest to be played upon at will? 

Capt. Glen, {tantalizingly). If I 



THE OLD PATROON. 1 7 

touch upon the subject are you wise 
to rail about it ? When you play upon 
a drum it sounds because it is hollow ; 
so, my joke has barely left my lips 
when you proclaim yourself beaten ! 

Barlow, {furious). To your guard, 
sir ! Let us see if your sword be as 
quick as your tongue ! 

Matty, {apprehensively). Oh gentle- 
men, pray be calm ! 

Capt. Glen, {coolly). No cause for 
alarm, Mistress Matty. A colonial 
citizen it is needless to disarm. Shall 
we proceed ? 

Barlow. No ! You must fight, 
you coward ! Flamingo ! Til preen 
your plumage for you ! Petticoat 
soldier! Come, let's put a placket in 
your breeches ! 

Capt. Glen, {mildly surprised). 
Zounds ! The little cur can bite. 

{They begin a duel ; NlATTY screams.) 

2 



18 THE OLD PATROON. 

Gerrit Van Alst, {awakened and 

coming down). 

What ! Fighting here upon the public 
way ! 

Is this a cock-pit? You defy the 
town ? 

Schenectady has suffered daily insult 

And borne it with the dignity of si- 
lence. 

But not till now was brawling in the 
streets 

Ranked as a privilege within her laws ! 
Capt. Glen. 

Sir, I am Captain Glen, an English of- 
ficer. 

Stand back ! 
Gerrit Van Alst, {facing him). 

And I am Gerrit Van Alst, a Dutchman, 

As well you know, and trustee eighteen 
years 

Here in Schenectady. I make the laws 

And with the help of God FUsee them 
kept! 



THE OLD PATROON. 19 

You, Captain Glen, an English officer, 

And neighbor though you be, shall pay 
for this 

And half a hundred past unnoted 
pranks. 

Within the month our English gov- 
ernor 

Will find you more congenial residence. 

You know my word, so fear my influ- 
ence. 

{To Barlow). But you, sir, if there's 
breeding in a face. 

Were reared for better trade than tiffs 
and broils. 

From hereabout, I venture, you have 
come 

To taste of our election holiday, 

And found the draught too strong for 
good behavior? 
Barlow, {sulkily), 

I am no bumpkin, sir, but secretary 

To this young lady's uncle, an alderman 

And merchant of New York. 



20 THE OLD PATROON. 

Gerrit Van Alst, {kindly). 

Then take advice 
Distilled in sorrow's wine-press. Come, 
let's talk. 

{Leads him aside and warns him 
against Capt. Glen.) 
Matty, {surprised). 
Well ! This old man leans boldly on 
his power. 
Capt. Glen, {nettled). 
An old Dutch windmill ! 

Matty, {with aroused curiosity). 

What's his history ? 
Capt. Glen. 
Dull as the town's and full as common- 
place. 
We call him here Schenectady's patroon, 
For every year, as regular as frost, 
And by a sort of habit long acquired, 
These Dutch elect him village autocrat. 
He wears the town upon his little finger. 
And with that signet makes his humor 
law. 



THE OLD PATROON. 21 

Barlow, {to Gerrit, impatiently). 
ril pay it all the thought it may be 
worth. 
Matty, {to Glen, sarcastically). 
Then you are but a monkey on a stick 
For him to dance ? 

Capt. Glen, {taken aback), 
— To dance with others wooden as my- 
self. 
Now may I dance with you upon the 
Green ? 
Matty, {inattentively). 
Well — but I'll make this cavalier my 

escort, 
— And, if he will, my partner for a 
dance. 

{Goes to Gerrit Van Alst.) 
Gerrit Van Alst. 
My pretty mistress, if a cavalier 
Alone can please, I fear lest fitness 

grudge 
Your bounteous favor, for I never 
learned 



22 THE OLD PATROON. 

The minuet ; besides, — my dancing 

days 
Died with a past long dead, my little 

girl. 

{Seats himself upon the bench by the tree,) 

Capt Glen, {to Barlow). 
Come, if you*ll second me we'll chime 

together. 
While this young warbler and her base 

companion 
Descant upon the Dutch, we'll ring the 

changes, 
We'll change the modes, we'll turn the 

scales against them ! 
Our glee will drown the dumps ! 

Barlow, {gazing back spitefully at 
Matty). 
With all my heart ! I'd sell my life if 
I could — 
Capt. Glen, {sarcastically). 

Bravely spoken ! 



THE OLD PATROON. 23 

We'll be two roses on a stem, two sun- 
beams, 
Two dewdrops in a lily-cup ! 

{Exeunt J L,) 
Matty. 
Yes, let them go; Fll chat a bit with you. 
What did you dance ? 

{Seats herself beside Gerrit) 
Gerrit Van Alst. 

I loved a good Dutch reel. 
Matty. 
Yes, Captain Glen has told me you are 
Dutch. 
Gerrit Van Alst. 
My parents were, and left me as a pre- 
cious heritage 
Love for the Fatherland and Holland 

ways. 
But stands this Captain Glen so well 

intrenched 
In your good graces ? 
Matty, {lightly). 

Oh, my heart is free ! 



24 THE OLD PATROON. 

I knew him but by name till yester- 
day. 

My aunt was hungering for his mother's 
voice, 

As old friends will, so that green sprig 
named Barlow 

Was bidden to ease our voyage from 
New York 

And kept the sails blown big with 
laboring love-sighs. 

Whenever we were becalmed a glance 
at him 

Would start us off again ! But Captain 
Glen 

Is such a silly goose, and drawls his 
words — 

Why, taffy pulling isn't half as slow 

As coaxing him to coin a compliment. 

And all this blessed time, if you'll be- 
lieve it, 

He's not said once he loves me. 
Gerrit Van Alst. 

But he does? 



the old patroon. 2$ 

Matty. 
Oh, no indeed. Of course he wouldn't 

mean it. 
— That's why I like the Dutch ; they 

never say 
They love you when in truth they 

don't — now ^^ they? 
Gerrit Van Alst, {trying to be iin-^ 
partial). 
Even among the Dutch, my little 

lady, 
There's some base coin, — though rarely 

have I seen it. 
Matty. 
To me the Dutch are honest, true and 

simple, — 
Just like your flowers here. Oh, may 

I pluck some ? 
Gerrit Van Alst. 
' Twould yield the fairest tribute to 

their worth. 
{Aside) What spell is hidden in this 

childish prattle 



26 THE OLD PATROON. 

To make my heart-blood course like an 
April kill? 

It whispered back the spirit of a dream 

Buried among the hills of green ambi- 
tion ; 

It breathed the echo of a clarion 

That called gray veteran memories to 
arms. 

—Yet, if her father be as old as I 

He's none too young. — 

Matty, {among the flowers). 

You know the language that your 
flowers speak ? 
Gerrit Van Alst. 

My flowers speak ? No, / do all the 
talking, 

And they just listen when I*m tending 
them. 
Matty. 

Ah, but they talk about you when you 

go- 
And now FU tell you what they're gos- 
siping : 



THE OLD PATROON. 2/ 

Here's Crocus lingering — tells of cheer- 

fulness ; 
And Jasmine, amiability. 

Gerrit Van Alst, {good-naturedly). 

Enough ! 
The little flatterers are fooling you ! 

Matty. 
These violets relate your modesty ; 
The daisies vouch for simple innocence ; 
And here beneath is artless Honesty, 
Called by no other name. Why, there 

are pinks ! 
You must have been in love — or may 
be now ! 
Gerrit Van Alst, {risings with af- 
fected unconcern). 
Yes, those must be reduced ; they grow 
too rich. 
Matty. 
And here's a tell-tale primrose, yet un- 
opened ; 
That means a silent love : and at the 
back 



28 THE OLD PATROON. 

Are wali-flovvers, fidelity unfailing. 
Gerrit Van Alst, {compelled by his 
lame knee to resmne his seat), 
Pvly little maid, you have bewitched my 

garden, 
And surely studied magic over-well. 
Love-ribbons, vows, and longing coy- 
concealed — 
What may not next your oracles betray? 
Or moonlight meetings at a kissing- 
bridge — 
Matty. 
What^s that ? 
Gerrit Van Alst. 

Ah, one thing you will 
never learn 
Till you are half-way over some Dutch 

rillet. 
But barter not your heart for any 

seeming — 
Love never rode upon a merry laugh. 

Matty, {taking her cue). 
Now IVe a flower tells me more of you — 



THE OLD PATROON. 29 

This tearful little yellow asphodel 

Whispers a tale of unrequited love. 

— Did some fair lady win your plighted 
faith 

To wear it as a love-lorn amulet ? 

Did some girl write her name within 
your life 

And lay the story by unread, uncared 
for? 

Speak to me. See, these soft auriculas 

That owe you life mean trust and con- 
fidence. 

Love me for her ; make me your com- 
forter. — 

Tell me, did some one cheat you of 
your heart ? 
Gerrit Van Alst, {reverently). 

An angel out of heaven asked for 

it- 
God must have known its use.— -But 
come, your wish 

To unlock my secret thoughts and as- 
pirations 



30 THE OLD PATROON. 

Has proved a key that fits. Give me 

your hand. 
Promise you'll be my little friend and 

truepenny 
Henceforth to the crack of doom ! 
Matty, {eagerly). I do ! 

Gerrit Van Alst. 
And that you'll love the Dutch ? 
Matty, {giving flower). 

This tulip-bud, 
Flame-hearted with a golden crown, 

shall pledge it. 
The flower tells a true love's warm 

avowal, — 
No less is due Schenectady's Pa- 
troon. 
Gerrit Van Alst, {flattered). 
Tut, tut! That title's but the free- 
heart gift 
Of generous neighbors, and upon my 

head 
It falls unpaid for as a mother's love- 
pats. 



THE OLD PATROON. 3 1 

With real patroons it crowned an hon- 
ored rank, 

For our old Dutch West India Com- 
pany, 

Back in the days of loved author- 
ities. 

Coined it and stamped it probity and 
worth. — 

That chord contains the key-note of 
my hopes. 

For fame's a martial air that fires the 

heart 

To stride exultant over fallen sorrow. 

Ambition leads to victory or death — 

A glorious death in honorable fight. 

For eighteen years, my pretty Dutch 
recruit, 

IVe worked to win for friends my fel- 
low townsmen ; 

Counseled their plans, tempered their 
public wrath. 

Borne with their faults and cheered 
them in their sorrows. 



32 THE OLD PATROON, 

This knee was worsted fighting for 

their homes 
With Indians tired of English treachery. 
At harvest time a new assemblyman 
Leaves us to sound abroad our people's 

will, 
And in the hand of God he'll do his 

duty ! 
He'll plead for public honor, thrift, and 

truth — 
Plead for the old-time rule of peace 

and justice 
And neighborly good will. He'll wake 

their hearts, 
{Rising) And, when a wider sphere shall 

hail a welcome, 
Ready he'll stand to rear the hard- 
hewn walls 
That sentinel the safety of a state. 
— But there, the future cannot dull the 

taste 
For sweets the present offers.-- 

{Cannon heard. Matty screams^ 



THE OLD PATROON. 33 

Matty. What's that ? 

Gerrit Van Alst, {sternly). 

Those reprobates let loose the culverin 

Against my orders ? They must pay 
for that ! 
Matty, {admiringly). 

Now promise me you'll be my own 
gallant, 

My own knight-errant, shield and cham- 
pion ! 
Gerrit Van Alst. 

I'll be your humble servant little prin- 
cess, 

And in my heart I'll build a throne for 
you. 

One only is its queen, but she's away, 

And, till she comes — will you receive 
my homage ? 
Matty, {triumphantly). 

Gladly. I'll make you Lord High Ad- 
miral, 

And you shall navigate my ship of 
state. 
3 



34 THE OLD PATROON. 

No one, however favored, shall usurp 
Either the fame or duties of your 
rank. 

{Enter DiRK Van Wie.) 

Dirk Van Wie, {greatly perturbed). 
Ach ! Excellency ! — Yet Excellency no 
longer. Oh, Herr Van Alst ! Vat 
duyvil's vork is dis ? 

Gerrit Van Alst. What's hap- 
pened, Dirk Van Wie ? 

Dirk Van Wie. Dose rapscal- 
lions! Dose English poys ! Dey turn 
us out of all de offices! Fm no burg- 
omaster any more, nor you, nor Pieter 
Maerschalck. De Dutch are dying 
every day ; dese Englishmens are gom- 
ing into allerdings ! 

Gerrit Van Alst, {dazed). They Ve 
— turned us out ? 

Dirk Van Wie. Yah ! Fm going 
to Fort Orange now to-day. I take de 
first sheep home to old Holland. New 
Amsterdam is in der Duyvil's fist. 



THE OLD PATROON. 35 

Dis IS no blace for good peebles. 
Coom, ve'll get avay ! 

Gerrit Van Alst. No, Dirk ; the 
times will change. You know how 
long weVe worked for Dutch repre- 
sentation in the Assembly of the col- 
ony. We'll elect our spokesman hardly 
three months from now. I must be 
here to undertake it. 

Dirk Van Wie. Dey Ve chosen 
him ! Dey cast de votes to-day, be- 
hind de elegtion of burgomasters ! 
Captain Glen, dat tvist-zoeker, cajoled 
dem und made dem promises of busi- 
ness und prizes und thalers from some 
Englishman down in New Amsterdam. 

Matty. Captain Glen ? Was Cap- 
tain Glen elected over everybody? 

{Retires and looks off L.) 

Dirk Van Wie. Und now, Herr 
Van Alst,— dear, good Gerrit, dot veVe 
known und lofed so long — come mit me 
back to old Holland — 



36 THE OLD PATROON. 

Gerrit Van Alst, (^firmly, after 
regaining composure). Never, Dirk ! 
Here I was born and here Til stay, 
ofifice or no office. And why not stay 
here with me ? What if you were born 
in Holland ; the best years of your 
life have been here in Schenectady. 
Stay, and see the Dutch influence 
leaven our colony. Stay, and see our 
glorious West India Company resume 
direction, and peace and honest com- 
fort return. And then, think, Dirk, we 
love some of the English, and they 
love us with all their hearts. 

Dirk Van Wie. Dieven ! Schobbe- 
jacken ! Blaaskaken ! Loosen-shalken ! 
Dot Captain Glen, he maagd a Duyvil's 
dans-kamer of our elegtions ! I said he 
should not fire der culverin. He pointed 
a pocket-pistol oud at my head. Den 
dose scamps und deugenieten fired de 
culverin und py St. Nicholas der pullet 
hit dat elm-tree in der middle of it — 



THE OLD PATROON. 37 

dat elm-tree you loved so — und now it 
vill die vid a hole all de vay oud of it ! 

Gerrit Van Alst, {sadly). Poor 
old tree ! Even its heart was not safe. 
— But promise me you'll stay^ Dirk, 
ril show you one case already where 
our old Dutch virtues have won an 
English heart. A cheery, lovable girl — 
(turns to where Matty had been sitting). 

Dirk Van Wie. A girl ! Yaas, 
she'll like de Dutch for schmelkty- 
nudels and raisin-pie und chincher- 
bread ; but tell her to clean off de 
galousie blinds und — koockamulto, 
yoost see how she ben gone ! — Ach, 
haltybissel, mine Gerrit, der goot 
Dutch girl is goot in der whole year 
altogedder und der English girl is goot 
at Paas und Pinxter. — No, I go back 
to my old home on de Yssel. 

Gerrit Van Alst, {sadly, but with 
determination). And I stay here till 
our old Dutch honesty returns ! We 



38 THE OLD PATROON. 

may not win the offices yet, but well 
conquer the hearts of those about us! 
Dirk Van Wie, {admiringly grasp- 
ing his hand), Gerrit,you ben a crate pig 
fighting ram-sheep, und I vish I too vas ! 

{Exit, R.) 
{Enter Barlow and Capt. Glen, 
jubilant^ 
Barlow. 
There she is ! 
Capt. Glen. 

Here he is ! Trying his influence ! 
Ha, ha ! '* You know my word ** — now, 

old Patroon ! 
There's a change in the tide, so level 

your "" influence '' 
Straight at your rival,~the Man in the 
Moon ! 
Matty, {eagerly). 
Let me felicitate you, Captain Glen ! 

Gerrit Van Alst. 
Young man, weigh well the burden you 
would bear, 



THE OLD PATROON. 39 

For honors underrated carry curses. 
Jeer, if you must, at Gerrit, the old 

Patroon, 
But reverence the trust he hoped to 
safeguard. 
Matty. 
And tell us, Captain, was the dancing 

drowned 
In other celebration of your triumph ? 
If not, I hope to try a measure with you. 
Gerrit Van Alst, {in surprised dis- 
appointment). 
Does friendship follow fortune, little 
maid ? 
Matty, {embarrassed). 
Oh no, — but then I love the red-coats 

so, — 
My father was an English ofificer — 
Was stationed in New York long, long 

ago— 
'Twas then he met my mother — 
Gerrit Van Alst, {in great emotion). 
At New York ? 



40 THE OLD PATROON. 

Her name before she married ! — Wait 
— in my ear ! 
Matty, {after hastily whispering her 
"inothers name in his ear). 
Well, Captain Glen, must I implore 
your notice? 
Capt. Glen. 
Your pardon, but this gentleman re- 
quired, 
As payment for your uncle's name he 

used. 
That I should cede to him your com- 
pany — 
Barlow, {exultant). 
And all that he might yield it back 

again ; 
But at its proper worth — for noth- 
ing! 
Gerrit Van Alst, {furiously). 

Sir ! ! 
Mati:^ , {humbly). 
Then, Captain, shall we leave ? — And, 
if you will. 



THE OLD PATROON. 4I 

Let's go by way of the bridge. 

{Exeunt, Z.) 
Gerrit Van Alst, {enraged). 

See here, young man — 
If time had served us both an equal 

portion, 
You'd pay for what youVe done! Fd 
baste your hide ! 
Barlow, {sullenly). 
She is a jilt ! 
Gerrit Van Alst. 

And youVe a coward, sir : 
Enough, begone ! 

{Exit Barlow, R^ 
Gerrit Van Alst, {turning sadly 
toward his home). 

'Zekiel !— 'Zekiel !— Judy ! 
Judy, {appearing at doorway), Yis, 
Marster. 

Gerrit Van Alst. Bring me the 
grub-ax, Judy, I must work with the 
flowers awhile. 

Judy. Why, Marster, 'Zekiel 'lowed 



42 THE OLD PATROON. 

as how you tole him to mind de flowers 
arfter to-day. 

Gerrit Van Alst. No no! They're 
too important to be trusted with him. 
I'll tend them myself. — Fm going to 
raise the best tulips in the Colony— 
these great gay ones — " flame hearted 
with a golden crown.'' I'll make them 
famous through all New Netherlands. 
Down in our old town of New Amster- 
dam they may please some chance 
visitor from over seas. 
{Enter, R, Dame Louisa leading!) auy, 
Marian, who is bliitd,) 

Dame Louisa. Marian, I'm heartily 
thankful you had no more daughters, 
for another niece like Matilda would 
drive my poor head crazy. The Lord 
should never have made you blind un- 
til she was safely married, for it takes 
four eyes to watch her — and even then 
she slips away on the sly. I'm con- 
vinced, Marian, that we must send 



THE OLD PATROON. 43 

her to bed and take her clothes 
away. 

Dame Marian. Sister, she is only 
a child. 

Dame L. Oh, she's old enough to 
know better. You were only a child 
once yourself, but you knew enough to 
marry a brawling tippler that kept his 
foot upon your neck to the end of his 
life, — fifteen long years. He tried to 
get his other foot on my neck, thinking, 
I suppose, that it was all in the family. 
But he couldn't play Roman charioteer 
or Colossus of Rhodes with me ! 

Dame M. Sister, can you see Matty 
anywhere ? 

Dame L. Not a vestige of her. 
But then it is useless to look in such a 
quiet spot as this. I know she must 
be down at the Green. 

Dame M. And alone ! 

Dame L. Oh, don't be afraid ; I'll 
warrant she has escorts enough ! Wait 



44 THE OLD PATROON. 

— sit here ; TU ask this old Dutch 
gardener if he has seen her. {Seats 
Dame M., atR,, and addresses Gerrit, 
who is zvorking among his flowers^. 
Good Sir, have you ojpserved a flighty, 
light-headed, scatter-brained goose of 
a girl pass this way ? 

Gerrit Van Alst, {rising). No, 
madam, I have not. 

Dame L. — A giddy, flippant, pert 
young miss? 

Gerrit Van Alst. I have not, my 
good dame. 

Dame L. — A silly, laughing, coquet- 
tish English maid ? 

Gerrit Van Alst. A little Eng- 
lish maiden I have seen. Are you — her 
aunt ? She said her aunt came with her. 

Dame L. Yes, I am unhappily that 
aunt. We arrived here scarce twenty- 
four hoiirs ago, and I declare she has 
met every man in the place ! Do you 
chance to know where she is now ? 



THE OLD PATROON. 45 

Gerrit Van Alst. She left here 
to dance upon the Green. 

Dame L. Well, she'll dance to bed 
and nowhere else. If her father were 
alive to-day I should just like to show 
him how his love for rioting has borne 
fruit! Sit there, Marian; I'll fetch 
the girl and be back in a jiffy. 

{Exit, L.) 

Gerrit Van Alst, {aside), Marian ! 
{Approaching) Is this the mother of 
our strayaway ? 

Dame M. 
Yes, I am she. Though in my child's 

regard 
'Twould seem I'm more a keeper than 
a mother. 

Gerrit Van Alst, {aside). 
How altered ! Yet — the same ! 

Dame M. Are you the gardener ? 

Gerrit Van Alst. 
Yes, I'm a gardener ; — {aside) that's all. 
And fortune, 



46 THE OLD PATROON. 

Perhaps in jest, has left me one poor 

gift, 
My flowers ; let me offer you the rarest. 
( Takes the tulip from his coat and 
offers it,) 
{Hurt), You will not take it ? 

Dame M., {extending her hand, but 
not toward the flower). 

Oh, pray pardon me. 
Gerrit Van Alst, {aside). 

My God, she cannot see ! 
( Takes her hand and closes it about 
the flower^ 

Dame M. The flower's trim 

And graceful, but a niggard in per- 
fume. 
Gerrit Van Alst. 
'Tis oft a fault of flowers, and the 

gayest 
That woo the eye's approval bear no 

soul 
To make their memory sweet. For 
modest worth, 



THE OLD PATROON. 47 

That with a whispered prayer awaits a 
lover, 

Dwells rather in the blossom half-un- 
seen, 

A presence felt, a proffer with a 
pledge. 
Dame M. 

Yes, and the world's the same in every 
part,— 

Perhaps the sun is but a satellite, — 

For in the truth you've uttered stands 
revealed 

The lesson I have conned for twenty 
years. 

A thoughtless girl, I scorned an honest 
man 

To wed a rake, — and yet, God rest his 
soul. 
Gerrit Van Alst. 

And if that honest man were here to- 
day. 

And bore for you the self-same heart 
of love — 



48 THE OLD PATROON. 

Dame M,, {excitedly). 
Stop ! Is it Gerrit ? Nearer ! Quick, 
your hand ! 
Gerrit Van Alst, {kneeling and 
putting his hand in hers). 
And if his power reached but to the 

flowers, — 
A poor Dutch gardener,— 
Dame M., {eagerly^. 

That I can mend ! 
Your life's ambition never climbed so 

high 
As I can build your path. Oh, Gerrit, 

Gerrit, 
Let me replace the hopes 1 helped to 

shatter ! 
My brother holds high office in his 

gift ; 
I pledge you now what would have 

been your honors 
Had vanity been artless long ago. 
Gerrit Van Alst, {diffidently). 
One honor I would ask — 



THE OLD PATROON. 49 

Dame M. That is ? 

Gerrit Van Alst. — Yourself. 

Dame M. 
You love me yet ! — No, Gerrit, — I am 
blind. 
Gerrit Van Alst, {quietly). 
And / am blind — to all the world but 

you ! 
Come, love is best that's tipped with 
bitterness. 
{Enter LouiSA with Matty by the 

arm ; Capt. G. behiitd^ tipsy}) 
Dame L. Hurry, child ; it is very im- 
portant and requires your immediate 
attention. 

Matty. But what is it, Aunty? 
Dame L., {mysteriously^, I can't bear 
to tell you. Hurry back to the house 
with me. {Seeing Gerrit and Marian 
embracing}) Marian ! ! 

Dame M., {joyfully). Ah, Louisa, I 
have found my first love, Gerrit Van 
Alst. 
4 



50 THE OLD PATROON. 

Dame L. What, that young coun- 
tryman from up the North River? — 
the one that lodged in Petticoat Lane ? 
Well, well! (Matty slily substitutes 
Capt. Glen*S arm in her aunfs grasp 
and is by him caught by the dress as she 
attempts to escape^ I remember the 
first time he put on Dutch goloshes 
with us — {approaches Gerrit) you re- 
member, we drove out to the Collect 
and it was all frozen over from one end 
to the other. And as soon as you 
started off over it, up went your heels 
and down you sat right on your hat ! — 
And oh, what fun we had that night 
sliding down Flatten Barrack Hill ! 
{Discovers Capt. Glen) Oh ! ! 

Gerrit Van Alst, {laughing), 
'Zekiel! ^Zekiel! Judy ! 

Judy, {appearing around the corner of 
the house), Yis, Marster. 

Gerrit Van Alst. Where 's 

'Zekiel ? 



THE OLD PATROON. 5 1 

Judy, {giggling). He up in de loft, 
Marster, mixin* hoe cake. He 'lows 
as how I karn*t do it no mo', so he tuk 
de kittle an' de big pan an' all de 
spoons an' paraphenia up to de loft. 
I spec'alates he gwine to cook some 
ambitions fer supper. He done gone 
put de big dough-pan up on a cheer, 
so when he harnds punch de meal it 
mos' like a bucket gwine down in a 
well ! 

{Hubbub within, 'Zekiel heard crying 
'' Judy ! Judy ! Massa Gerrit ! " 
after ivhich he appears at the door 
covered with meal and with dough- 
smeared fingers^ 

Gerrit Van Alst. Ah ! Ambition 
gone astray ! 

(Capt. Glen sits dozvn to stare 
at 'Zekiel and rub his eyes.) 

Curtain. 



[ The following plays were written for college actors.] 

A TRILOGY IN MINIATURE. 



I. My Youngster's Love Affair, Comedy; 
IL The Guardian Angel, Melodrama ; 
IIL The Mild Monomaniac, Farce. 

" I cannot blame his conscience." 

Henry VIII. 



I. 

MY YOUNGSTER'S LOVE AFFAIR. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Arkwright, a practical business man ; 
Henry Arkwright, his four-year-old son ; 
Mr. Graham, his old clerk ; 
Thomas, his butler. 



I. 

MY YOUNGSTER'S LOVE AFFAIR. 



Scene — Parlor ; mantel over bright grate fire, L ; 
lamp on table in middle of stage ; doors, LUK and 
RC ; large arm-chair before fire. 

{Enter Arkwright, taking off ulster 
and giving it to THOMAS in doorway^ 

Rcy 

Arkwright. Thomas, hang my 
coat where it will dry ; quick, quick ! 

Thomas. Yes, sir ; it*s a bad storm, 
sir, but how much worse it is for old 
people that have to go out in it, sir. 

Arkwright. Thomas, that's suffi- 
cient ; run away. ( Exit Thomas.) 
Goodness, this weather is enough to 

57 



58 MY youngster's love affair. 

kill an Esquimaux ! Sleet, rain, snow, 
wind, slush, ice,— three blocks* walk 
from the station fits you for three days 
in bed! {Takes off spectacles and ex- 
amines them by the lamp, the^t lays 
them on mantel^ Spoils glasses, too ; 
and my eyes feel as if they had been 
whipped. Thomas ! — Thomas ! ( Re- 
enter T.) Where's Mrs. Arkwright ? 

Thomas. She went next door, sir, 
to take some flowers to Mrs. Graham, 
and she's not returned yet. 

Arkwright. Always attending that 
sick woman instead of staying at home 
and taking care of herself ! Where's 
Henry? 

Thomas. She took the little boy 
with her, sir. He pleaded so hard to 
visit Mr. Graham's little girl, Prudence, 
that she had to take him. The two 
little tots were out just now in the cov- 
ered alleyway {poi7itmg over his shoul- 
der.) They cleave to each other, sir, 



MY YOUNGSTER'S LOVE AFFAIR. 59 

like David and Goliah, and when their 
yellow curly heads are gossipin* away 
they look for all the world like two 
little angels flown down from the same 
star. Sure, their voices tinkle just as 
one, sir, and their darlin' faces look so 
much alike that — when they *re together 
I can't tell them apart ! But now 
Prudence has a big red cloak with a 
hood to it ; it must have cost her old 
father some pinching to get it, sir. 
(Henry heard behind the scenes: 
^^Henry ! Henry ! " '' Well, Prudence ? " 
*^ Your mamma says you must put this 
cloak on, or else come right into the 
house again ! " Sufficient difference in 
his voice zvill be made if he faces in 
opposite directions for the call and re- 
sponse^ They tell me, sir, you *ve dis- 
charged old Mr. Graham from his posi- 
tion, and 

Arkwright, (impatiently). Thomas, 

that's sufficient ; run away. 



6o MY YOUNGSTER*S LOVE AFFAIR. 

Thomas, {retiring^ but turning again 
to speak^. You know he*s getting 
hard of hearing, sir, and he's none too 
strong. 

Arkwright, {annoyed), Thomas, 
will you run away^ or must I discharge 
you too? 

Thomas. Ah, Mr. Arkwright, you 
can't frighten your old Thomas that 
way. He knows your heart better 
than you do yourself, sir. Sure, he 
studied it before you ever knew you 
had one ! Who was it dandled you on 
his knee ? Who was it gave you the 
spoon and the bowl and let you have 
your own way with the bread and milk 
when they wanted to tie a bib around 
your neck? No,, you Ve a good, kind 
heart, sir, and it grieves me to see you 
false to it with poor old Mr. Graham. 

Arkwright, {despairingly). Will 
you run away, or must / leave the 
room? 



MY YOUNGSTER^S LOVE AFFAIR. 6l 

Thomas. Every one of us is sorry 
for him, sir. 

Arkwright, {rising). Thomas, I'm 
not going to let you talk me into 
things any more ! You forget that I 
am a grown man with a family. 

Thomas. He seems even more fee- 
ble since you told him 

Arkwright. Do you think I have 
only other people's welfare to look out 
for ? Do you think my business would 
last a year if I answered every call upon 
my sympathy ? Do you think 

Thomas. And oh, the darlin' little 
girl, too, sir. 

Arkwright. Do you 

Thomas. And the poor sick mother. 

{Exeunt ARKWRIGHT, Z., and 
Thomas, with a gesture of despair, 
RC.) 

Arkwright, {re-entering cautiously). 
That man would talk down a cyclone ! 
He seems to have no idea how business 



62 MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. 

matters are managed. Mercantile life 
is not a colossal philanthropy. Busi- 
ness is business. I can't afford to have 
a clerk that is growing deafer every- 
day, and so old that he makes me look 
like an office boy. No, as Thomas 
says, my heart is all right, but this is 
no case for interference from the heart. 
For once I'll stand firm. Not all the 
persuasion or appeals under Heaven 
shall move me this time. I'll not 
change my mind ! I'll nevei" change 
my mind ! 

{Door bell rings ; re-enter THOMAS.) 

Thomas. Mr. Graham would see 
you, sir. 

Arkwright, {in disgust). Tell him 
I'm out. ^ 

Thomas. Sure, sir, he knows you 're 
in ; and, besides, I've already told him 
so myself. 

Arkwright, ( with resignation ). 
Well, show him in. 



MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. 63 

{Enter Graham, a dignified old man, 
plainly but neatly clothed in old-fash- 
ioned style) 

Graham. Mr. Arkwright, I beg you 
to excuse me for intruding. 

Arkwright, {in a business4ike tone). 
No intrusion at all, Mr. Graham. 

Graham, ( without hearing him ). 
Especially at a time when we are both 
worn out with the day's work. ^ 

Arkwright. I trust you are not— 

Graham. But I could not meet my 
wife 

Arkwright, {loudly). I trust you 
are not so very worn out. 

Graham. Eh ? 

Arkwright. I trust you are not so 
very worn out ? 

Graham. Very warm out? Oh, 
no, — very cold indeed, sir. And I feel 
the cold more the last few years. 
When a man passes sixty-five, no mat- 
ter how hale he was as a boy, he's 



64 MY youngster's love affair. 

bound to feel the cold. And it is this 
growing old that makes my discharge 
all the harder to bear, sir. ( Keeps his 
hand at his ear throughout the rest of 
the interview^ 

Arkwright. Mr. Graham, I am 
sorry, but I have determined, once and 
for all, not to reconsider that subject. 
It is purely a matter of business expe- 
diency into which I have resolved no 
other consideration shall enter, sir. 

Graham. But, Mr. Arkwright, if I 
must lose the position, think of the 
hardship it will bring my wife and 
child. You have professed to love my 
little girl; you would not have her 
suffer ? 

Arkwright. She shall not suffer, 
sir, — but that is entirely aside from 
business matters. 

Graham. And your own child, — 
you would not make him unhappy. 
He will lose his playmate, for we can- 



MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. 65 

not longer afford our modest home. 
The children love each other, sir, and 
a separation would mean the first 
genuine sorrow of their little lives. 

Arkwright, {impatiently), Mr. 
Graham, I can't let my youngster's 
love affairs interfere in a purely busi- 
ness question. — And anyway, it strikes 
me you assume a good deal in believing 
that Henry will not find another play- 
mate as attractive as Prudence. 

Graham, {stung to the quick). Sir, 
there is not one child in a hundred as 
amiable and sweet-tempered as my 
wee daughter ; and far from your little 
boy's fellowship being a condescension, 
sir, I would have you understand that 
our Prudence has more good qualities 
in a single day than Henry has from 
Christmas to Christmas ! 

Arkwright, {angry). How dare 
you say that, sir ? It is not true, and 
you know it ! 
5 



66 MY YOUNGSTER'S LOVE AFFAIR. 

Graham, {hotly). Our little girl has 
never in her short life given us the least 
anxiety or displeasure, sir. We have 
not had to punish her even once ; she 
knows how to act according to our 
wishes, sir ; she has a conscience, while 
your boy — 

Arkwright, (emphatically), I am 
that boy's conscience, sir ! 

Graham. Then that proves what I 
would say ! I bid you good evening, 
Mr. Arkwright, and before leaving I 
desire to assure you that I have posi- 
tively forbidden my child to cross your 
threshold hereafter, and I shall look to 
it that the children never again have 
occasion to meet. 

{Exit, RC) 

Arkwright. What insolence ! That 
child better than Henrv ! More amiable 
and sweet-tempered, eh, — just as if that 
was everything ! Henry is worth a 
dozen of her ! {Walks about the room. 



MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. 6/ 

Extinguishes lampy and takes a seat in 
big arm-chair before the fir e^, — Fm glad 
I discharged him ; I'm only sorry I 
didn't do it ten years ago. More 
amiable! Humph! 

(Thomas appears at doorway, RC, 
with Henry ivrapped in PRUDENCE'S 
red cloak. Enter THOMAS, groping his 
way) 

Thomas. Mr. Arkwright. 

Arkwright. What do you want, 
Thomas? 

Thomas. Oh, did the light go out, 
sir? 

Arkwright. Yes, and let it stay 
out. I've worked myself nearly blind 
to-day, so I'll rest my eyes here in the 
dark. 

Thomas, {beckoning Henry in). Well, 
a little friend of yours has just come in 
at the back door to pay you a visit, 
sir. 

Arkwright. Who is it ? 



68 MY youngster's love affair. 

Thomas. Just look at the cloak 
and hood, sir, and see if you can guess. 
{Bringing Henry in toward the light 
of the fire,) 

Arkwright. Prudence, eh ? Humph ! 
Father at the front door, daughter at 
the back door, — we*ll have the invalid 
mother coming down the chimney next. 

{Exit Thomas, RC. Henry seats 
himself, C, front, behind Arkwright.) 

YiY.'^YN, {demurely). My papa doesn't 
know Tm here. 

Arkwright, {ill-humoredly, without 
turning). He doesn't? 

Henry. No. — I've another fairy 
tale for you. 

Arkwright. Well, is it of the sort 
that Henry tells, or your variety, — all 
golden towers and elves with burning 
eyes in mountain caves? 

Henry. No. All the elves are little 
angels now. 

Arkwright. Indeed. 



MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. 69 

Henry. Fm going to begin it. 

Arkwright. Well, Fm ready. 

Henry. Long, long time ago, when 
all the fences were of gingerbread, with 
candy flowers growing 'round them, 
— is that the kind of story you like 
best? 

Arkwright. Tis very sweet. 

Henry. Yes. Well, — long time 
ago, when all the flowers were gin- 
gerbread and sugar, two little angels 
ran away from Heaven. And all day 
long they fed the birds with crumbs, 
and chased the squirrels 'round the 
trees, and laughed, until 'twas time to 
go to bed, and then a big old mother 
hen made room for them under her 
wing. But when the moonlight came, 
a naughty rooster made a dreadful 
noise. — You see, he thought the moon- 
light was the sun. — And then the little 
angels laughed at him and he got mad 
and chased one right away ! 



70 MY YOUNGSTER S LOVE AFFAIR. 

Arkwright, {amused). What a bad 
rooster ! 

Henry. Yes. That little angel got 
lost in the dark until the daylight came, 
and then the other little angels up in 
Heaven came down to look for him 
and took him home. 

Arkwright, {beginning to feel un- 
easy). And what about the angel that 
was left ? Did he go back to Heaven ? 

Henry. No, he couldn't; he didn't 
know the way alone. He cried and 
cried until he talked just like a chicken, 
and said ^' Peep ! Peep ! " and never 
tried to fly. So when the angels came 
to look for him, they found him just 
like any other chicken ; and he grew 
up to be a big bad rooster. — Perhaps 
they'll kill him and cook him and eat 
him up. 

Arkwright, {uncomfortable). It 
seems to me the angels up in Heaven 
would take him ; for he'd ask them to. 



MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. 71 

Henry. Oh no. He isn't like an 
angel any more ; he doesn't want to 
go, for he's a chicken. And chickens 
can't see angels, anyhow. {A pause). 
Can you see angels? 

Arkwright, {startled). Oh,— -I never 
tried. 

Henry. You have to shut your 
eyes and look real hard, and then you'll 
see them flying all around. Just shut 
your eyes, — I'll show you. {Goes up 
behind the chair and puts his hands over 
his father s eyes,) Now can you see 
them ? 

Arkwright. Why, hardly. 

Henry, {reaching around farther,) 
Now can you see them ? 

Arkwright, {rising, and going to 
door, RC) Well, if not, I certainly 
hear one, and to good effect. — Thomas ! 

Thomas, {entering). Yes, sir. 

Arkwright. Tell Mr. Graham I 
should like to speak with him ; ask him 



72 MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. 

to come at once. {Aside,) How could 
I think of parting those two children ? 
That little lady's influence for my boy 
makes amends for any sort of father. 
And, after all, old Graham is honest as 
the day, and competent. He is old 
and deaf, but certainly my behavior 
to the father of such a child has been 
heartless to say the least. I wish I 
had thought about the children. How- 
ever, ril try now to make amends. — 
{Raising his voice as Graham appears^ 
RC.) Oh, Graham, come right in. 
I want to ask your pardon for speaking 
as I did. Fatigue and worry made me 
forget your feelings. And, Graham, I 
want to ask as a favor that you'll not 
move from your little home next door, 
or raise any objection to the children's 
companionship. 

Graham. I thank you, Mr. Ark- 
wright, with all my heart, for these 
kindlier words. But now I must be- 



MY YOUNGSTER S LOVE AFFAIR. 73 

gin my business life all over again ; we 
cannot afford to keep the house. 

Ark WRIGHT. Nonsense! Fve 
changed my mind ! You go right back 
to the office as usual to-morrow morn- 
ing and ril give you a small room all 
to yourself, where nobody will bother 
you, and I'll put a stove in there so 
that you will not feel the cold, and — 

Graham. Oh, Mr. Arkwright, this 
is too much ; I don't deserve this, sir ! 
I am not blind to my growing infirmity, 
and surely you must have seen it too, 
sir. 

Arkwright. Graham, I've kept 
my business eyes open too much. 
Sometimes we can see better with our 
eyes shut ! Give me your hand ; you 
have my friendship, henceforth un- 
changeable. And if you want to know 
why I have taken better counsel in 
this matter, ask your little seraph 
there. I never knew till now her four 



74 MY YOUNGSTER S LOVE AFFAIR. 

small years had grown so inseparably 
into my life. 

Graham, {surprised and grieved). 
What! Prudence disobey me and 
come here ? Well, I must not blame 
the child until I know her motives. 
But to punish her now would make 
me cry as hard as ever in my 
life. 

Arkwright. Why, I forgot. Here 
we are in the dark, like a couple of 
bats ! Thomas ! 

Thomas, {entering). Yes, sir. 

Arkwright. Light the lamp again, 
Thomas. — And now, my little angel, 
where did you find that lovely fairy 
tale you entertained me with ? 

Henry. Thomas told it to me. 

Arkwright. Oho! Graham, 
Thomas is giving your little girl a 
course in angelic theology of a new 
order ! You had better inquire into it 
this evening. 



MY YOUNGSTER S LOVE AFFAIR. 75 

Graham, [looking at Henry m sur- 
prise). My little girl? That's Henry! 

Arkwright. What? Thomas, 
bring me my glasses ! So it is ! Henry ! 
{Lifts Henry into his arms a7id shakes 
his finger reprovingly at THOMAS.) 



Curtain. 



II. 

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL, 



CHARACTERS. 

Henry, (alias Thompson), and Arthur, his 
wayward brother. 



u. 

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL, 



Scene — Poorly furnished room in a tenement; 
table, chair, and two candles, one of them burning. 
Mantel and grate, L. Door, R. Henry, in rags, 
at work painting a china vase. Steps heard on the 
stairway. Enter Arthur, dressed in the height of 
fashion. 

Arthur, {singing, and a little tipsy). 
Home again, home again, from a 
foreign shore! — No, Fm only half seas 
over ! Here, Thompson, Mister Thomp- 
son, what are you trying to hide there ? 
Have you bought another loaf of bread 
after getting one day before yesterday ? 
That's extravagance, man ; do you 
think we can afford an establishment 
like the Vanderbilts', or buy three 

79 



8o THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

loaves of bread in the same week? 
Besides, Tve had all my dinners and 
three breakfasts out this month, and 
to-morrow I'll sleep until the twelve 
o'clock whistles blow, so we can get 
along with just a dinner. Come, let'^ 
see the size of it. {Taking vase). Oho! 
A china vase — and a little paint. Now 
Thompson, this is the second time IVe 
caught you putting paint on these fine 
bits of crockery ; what do you do it 
for? 

Henry, {patiently), I hoped to sell 
it ; for you know we need money, Ar- 
thur. {Lights second candle), 

Arthur. Money! Why, I draw 
my twenty dollars regularly every 
week from the bank. That hasn't 
given out, — though I suppose it must 
be getting low. How much is there 
left ? You have the book. 

Henry. I fear there is very little 
left now. But let me take the vase ; 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 8 1 

you may drop it. There was a lady 
here to-day who said she would buy 
it. 

Arthur, {chaffing). Aha ! So you 
have ladies calling upon you, eh, while 
Fm away ? Oh you gay rogue ! Oh 
you rascal ! Perhaps you're one of 
the boys, after all. And do they con- 
sider you a lady killer, with that frowzy 
head and those blase clothes ? Thomp- 
son, Thompson ! So you're only a 
carpet knight, — and r^^^ carpet at that ! 
{Singing ^' Buy a broom,'' mid dancing 
around with the vase,) Oh, my little 
flower-pot, little finger-bowl, little 
tooth-mug, {drops it ; HENRY starts to 
catch it and groans disheartened as it is 
shattered, ARTHUR becomes sober at 
once). Oh, Tm sorry, old man ; {re- 
gretfully) I didn't mean to break it. 
But I'll get you another to-morrow, 
when I draw my twenty dollars for the 
coming week. That bill for cab hire 



82 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

is not more than fifteen, and Til let 
the house charges at the club run for 
another month. — Come, you're not 
hurt at what I said about your clothes, 
are you ? It's only my way of teasing, 
and I know that under this old coat 
there is a heart that has proved a hun- 
dred times over that it loves me. Why, 
how could I have kept the pace these 
three years past if you had not guarded 
my expenses and provided a mouthful 
to eat and a poor substitute for a home 
when I chanced to be without a friend's 
hospitality for the night? Come, 
Thompson, old man, look up and tell 
me I have not wounded your feelings. 
Henry. Arthur, you know I have 
been a true friend to you, and true 
friendship does not seek offense. I 
have done my best for you, for I loved 
you, — perhaps some day you may know 
why. No ; it is something else that 
makes me sad to-night. But tell me 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 83 

once more about your early life. 
( Warming his hands at the grate.) 

Arthur. Oh, don't ask me to do 
that. Something has happened to-day 
to make the subject very painful to me. 
That's why I drank more than usual at 
the club before coming home, and, as 
a consequence, broke your vase. IVe 
told you how when father died my 
brother tried to keep me steady and 
self-respecting ; how I hated him and 
accused him of wanting my money, 
and at last ran off to seek pleasure in 
this city. Here Fve squandered nearly 
all the funds father put in the bank to 
my account, and if I had not met you 
three years ago the fellows at the club 
would have found me out before this. 
As it is, they still think I am a wealthy 
man of leisure — confound it all! 

Henry. And your brother — do you 
still hate him ? 

Arthur, {with mild surprise). Why 



84 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

do you want to know ? You asked me 
that same question a long while ago, 
too. {Approaching him) I have al- 
ways made a confident of you, Thomp- 
son, for you never preach, — unless 
by example- — and, to be candid, I 
love you as the one true friend I 
have in this world, for you have 
proved it. {Returning) As to my 
brother, I must confess that up to 
this very day my hate for him and 
every memory of him has had all 
the stinging bitterness of a rebeFs. 
{Gravely) But I want to confide a 
secret to you, — something I learned this 
afternoon. First, tell me what has hap- 
pened to make you sad, and then FU 
tell you what is weighing upon my mind. 

Henry, {wearily). No, Arthur, you 
begin ; I feel tired to-night — FU make 
a better listener. 

Arthur. Not a bit of it ! Come 
over here and sit by the table, {rising) 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 85 

and ril warm my hands while you talk. 
{¥Ly.^KY feebly seats himself in the chair 
at the table,) 

Henry. Well, shall I tell you my 
life story ? 

Arthur. Yes, do, old fellow. You 
know I've pressed you for it often 
enough; and Tm tired of hearing you say 
you're my guardian angel in disguise. 

Henry, (dubiously). Would you feel 
the same toward me after I had told 
you all ? 

Arthur, {taking his hand). Why, 
of course I should. 

Henry, {earnestly). You love me, 
Arthur? 

Arthur, {enthusiastically). Could I 
help loving a comrade that has borne 
with all my faults, saved me a dozen 
times from utterly ruining myself, 
helped me to economize in private that 
I might still cut a figure in the world — 
and done all this without any other 



86 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

motive than blind devotion ? Thomp- 
son, dear old fellow, do you think I 
could be ungrateful ? 

Henry, {wistfully). But — you hate 
your brother ? 

Arthur, {conscience-stricken^ return- 
ing to fireplace). Go on; tell me your 
story ; I'll answer no more questions 
till you do. Begin. 

Henry, {sadly). No ; {straightening 
up)y but you shall hear a dream I had 
last night ; I thought I stood at 
Heaven's gate, watching the souls sent 
out into the world, like soldiers to a 
battle-field ; and every soul as it passed 
into the night received an angel for a 
guardian and helper in the battle. The 
angel carried a bright sunbeam for a 
sword and marched ahead to clear a 
path and meet the deadlier blows. But 
one warrior, thoughtless, as it seemed, 
of the long fight to come, refused to 
follow where his angel led the way, and 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 8/ 

turned aside to struggle in the dark. 
And when I looked at him I thought 
of one I loved — just such a soul — and 
joy flamed up within me when I saw 
his angel turn, accept his rash decision 
and follow in his footsteps, fighting for 
him. And now the blows hail heavier 
upon him, and, in the dark, enemies 
unseen before spring up. His angel 
battles with them, meeting the strokes 
the other could not parry, and every 
moment the conflict becomes fiercer. 
The soul I loved was moving on into 
a denser mass of enemies ; his angel 
warrior, following at his back, found it 
ever harder to guard and fight for him, 
and when I saw his sword-strokes 
cramped and hindered I turned away 
and fell upon my face to pray that God 
would spare him. {jOonvulsively buries 
his face in his hands?) 

Arthur, {astonished). Why, Thomp- 
son, my poor fellow, I never heard you 



88 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

talk this way before. Why should a 
dream cause you to feel so deeply ? 
And you have grown pale and haggard 
during the week. Have those friends 
that used to invite you out to a square 
meal so often, as you told me, grown 
weary of your company ? Or, more 
likely, youVe been keeping late hours, 
old man, and that's what makes you so 
tired too. But now brace up, for I 
want you to approve of something I 
did this afternoon. {Returning to grate.) 
I wrote and mailed three letters — one 
to Julia Mason, that rich banker*s 
daughter, and the other two to the 
clubs. {With cold determination}) In 
those letters I stated plainly I had been 
acting a part, that I was poor and 
growing every day poorer ; that I 
lodged with a good-hearted tramp even 
needier than I, and that when we dined 
at home — we never brushed the crumbs 
from the table. And now, I suppose 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 89 

you wonder at my making a clean 
breast of everything, but I learned to- 
day that Tve been a brute, and that 
my brother, instead of having squan- 
dered his money and gone to the bad, 
has reduced himself to penury in his 
efforts to find me and induce me to 
reform. To-day he is ahnost a beg- 
gar in this very town. (HENRY/^^^/y 
tries to speak ; ARTHUR does not see him,) 
Fm going to start right out to-morrow 
and find him, and tell him that I'll do 
anything for a brother that can love 
like that ! (YiE^'RY falls forward on the 
table. One of the candles, by a pre- 
arrangement^ burns 02it,) Don't go to 
sleep yet, old man ; I haven't told you 
how I heard about him. As I passed 
a church to-day, old Nellie Colgan, 
that benevolent crank father thought 
so much of, was just coming out. She 
knew me at once, in spite of the 
changes of ten years, and asked to 



90 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

speak with me. Then I learned that 
in one of her slumming tours she had 
found Henry in abject poverty. He 
confided in her, it seems, but under a 
promise of secrecy as to his where- 
abouts. He is barely able to keep 
body and soul together by working 
early and late, because, for some reason, 
he has to put by a certain amount of 
money every week. With more del- 
icacy than I gave her credit for, she 
admired his work, and told him that to- 
morrow she would call and buy some- 
thing he was finishing, some decorative 
trifle — {with a vague inkling of the 
truthy) painting, I think, — on china ! 
{looking at broken vase^ then hastily ap- 
proaching table,) Are you listening, 
old fellow — do you hear what I say ? 
Wake up ! Speak to me ! ! Henry ! 
{Falls sobbing at his side.) 

Curtain. 



III. 

THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 



A SCENE OF DOMESTIC VICISSITUDE 
IN THE LIFE OF 

MR. WILKINS, 

AN AMIABLE LITTLE FAT MAN. 



in. 

THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 



Scene — A garret in disorder. Large sofa front, 
door, R, open dormer window with seat, c. A 
down comforter and a lot of old books in corner, L. 
A china jar near them. As the curtain rises a wo- 
man's dress is seen to swish out of the door, which 
closes with a bang. Mr. Wilkins, in profuse per- 
spiration is seated on the sofa and holding a bundle of 
clothes which he has just taken from a trunk. 

Mr. Wilkins, {alternately talking 
and fanning violently), Amanda, if 
you're not very careful, I'll lose com- 
mand of my temper ! I should have 
remained a bachelor all my life if it had 
not been for Henry, that dear saintly 
brother of mine. And yet you find 
fault with me for talking about his 



94 THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 

missionary labors in China, and for 
trying to conform our conduct to his 
high ideals. Do you realize that I 
should not have embraced the married 
state except to imitate his self-sacri- 
fice ? And then where would you have 
been, — and our three children, to say 
nothing of the baby? No, Amanda; 
I am mild, for Henry was mildness it- 
self, but now I must put my foot down, 
just as I am sure Henry, if he were in 
my shoes, — yes, would put his foot 
down. I must — and I will go with you 
and the children to the circus ! There ! 
— {Propitiatorily^ You couldn't take 
care of those four young ones, 
Amanda, all by yourself ; and for 
Tommy, a boy nine years old, to look 
after his two sisters while you carry the 
baby, why, — Henry would say it was 
downright imprudence. Suppose they 
should go too near the monkeys, or the 
giraffe, or the elephant ! Now, as for 



THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 95 

my talking so much that you couldn't 
hear the clown, — I should think you 
would blush to acknowledge any liking 
for such talk as his. Anyway, he is a 
perfect stranger, and 1 am your hus- 
band. — Oh no ; if I had suspected that 
under pretext of getting these clothes 
you brought me all the way up 
here to the garret just to talk me 
into staying at home, — I should have 
remained down in the kitchen just as 
long as it suited me. Do you realize 
that you have practiced a deception 
upon me ? What would your saintly 
brother-in-law say to such an equivo- 
cation ? — But I shall control my in- 
dignation, Amanda. Henry was mild, 
even under great annoyance, and 
I believe you are sorry, — though I 
think you ought to say so and not stay 
there silent so long. {Soothingly^ I 
shall not say another word about it if 
you promise to be more considerate in 



96 THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 

future. Try to conform your ideas of 
right and wrong to Henry's standard in 
such matters. I did not appreciate him 
properly until he left us for his mission- 
ary work in China, but since then I have 
tried to make amends. I gave up the 
club, I gave up smoking. I rose every 
morning at six and I went to house- 
keeping and got married. Oh Henry, 
my dear brother, I am trying now to 
imitate your self-sacrifice, but I hope 
you will soon come home to us from 
those barbarous lands, — that you will 
not be a martyr ! — No, Amanda, I shall 
not rebuke you any farther, although 
you caused me to lose my breath climb- 
ing up those three flights of stairs on 
a hot day in August. — I say I shall not 
refer to the matter again. — Amanda, 
are you listening ? {Turns Z, then R ; 
looks back of sofa,) What! Did you 
go out that time when you slammed 
the door. {Angry,) And have I been 



THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 97 

talking to deaf ears, or rather, to 
no ears at all ? Amanda, if you're 
standing out there on the stairs come 
in. {Approaches door) Do you hear 
me? {Tries the knob,) Locked! The 
undutiful saucebox has locked her hus- 
band in the garret ! {Peremptorily, at 
door) Amanda! — {At window, casu- 
ally) Amanda ! — Nothing in sight but 
Mrs. Johnson's calf. I wish they'd 
keep that calf down at their own farm 
and not let it stray up here around our 
back door. {Indifferently) Amanda! 
{Leaves window) Well, I must get out 
of here some way. I said I was going 
to that circus, and when I say a thing — 
although Fm as mild as a Iamb under or- 
dinary circumstances,— just like Henry, 
my dear, amiable brother ! Oh, Henry, 
if you could only walk in here now and 
see how agitated I am, — and all be- 
cause I took your advice to settle down. 
— I know what Til do ; — I'll pick the 
7 



98 THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 

lock With my pen-knife. {Approaches 
door) Stop ! Is it right to pick a 
lock? Did Henry ever pick a lock? 
But then he was never shut up in a 
garret, — because he was never married. 
{Reassured, resumes the picking. Then, 
despairingly, after looking through key- 
hole) She*s left the key in the key- 
hole ! — {Loftily, retiriiig,) Henry would 
never pick a lock ; it would be beneath 
him ; his conscience was too sensitive. 
—If it wasn't so far to the ground I'd 
jump out the window. {Looks out.) 
There's little Helen Johnson. Her 
folks might come and let me out. How 
did she come to stray so far from home ? 
I suppose her people have gone to the 
circus, or her mother's cooking dinner. 
I wish she would wander over this way. 
{Calling) Helen ! Helen ! Come, I 
want to speak to you ! Helen ! That's 
a nice little girl ! Now, don't be afraid 
of the calf. The calf won't hurt you. 



THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 99 

Oh, if I had something to fire at that 
monster ! (^Jiimps down and hints 
about the roorn). Here ; Plut arches 
Lives, — I'd give all he ever had for 
that calf's ! {Returns to windozv with 
armful of books and fires them out, first 
reading the titles^ Alcibiades ! Numa 
Pompilius ! Caius Marius ! {Persua- 
sively^ Helen ! Hel — Go av/ay, you 
exasperating brute ! Shoo ! Come 
over nearer, Helen ; I have some candy 
for you. — {Aside .^ No, that's a lie; I 
haven't a bit of candy. Well, I'll 
correct that statement. — I haven't — 
that's right, come right along. {With 
embarrassment .) I was just going to 
tell you that I haven't any candy, but 
you go home and tell mamma to come 
and unlock my garret door, because 
I'm locked in and everybody's gone to 
the circus. Do you understand ? — 
gone to the circus, where the monkeys 
are, and the elephant and the camels 



lOO THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 

and the horseback riders. {Dances up 
and down by way of illustration}) Now 
won*t you go and tell her, like a good 
little girl ? Run along and tell mamma 
— wait a minute, I'll give you some- 
thing for being a good little girl. 
(Jumps down^ finds a rag doll and throws 
it out of the windozv.) There's Tom- 
my's old doll, Sophronia, and you can 
have her to keep. Now go and tell 
mamma. Here ! Don't go that way ! 
Go to mamma, — this way ! This way ! 
Oh, you tantalizing little imp ! Stroll- 
ing along in the other direction as if I 
had been merely playing Punch and 
Judy ! Yes, now look around at me to 
make sure the show is all over ! Never 
mind, I'll tell your mamma on you, 
and you'll get a good spanking, just 
like you got yesterday after dinner ! 
We heard you ! {Throwing himself 
upon sofa and fanning violently^ If I 
had a three year old child as stupid as 



THE MILD MONOMANIAC. lOI 

that one Fd give it an education abroad. 
— But there, I have sacrificed my equa- 
nimity, lost my temper over a calf, told 
a lie, and abused my wife. Oh Henry, 
I am not mild yet ; — I am nowhere 
near your gentleness ! What would 
you do now if you had forgotten your- 
self as I have? I know, — you'd follow 
your old rule and punish yourself in- 
some way ; but what can I do ? I 
am already suffering imprisonment 
and perspiration. I suppose, if I had 
the courage, — I could intensify the 
heat a little. {Looks hesitatingly at a 
pile of down comforters ^etc^ Henry, I 
WILL ! {Wraps himself in comforter 
and resumes his seat ^ No one shall say 
I lacked the courage of our convictions 
and I'll imitate you, Henry, in every- 
thing, — as far as Amanda is willing. 
Oh, Henry, if you could only walk in 
here now and see me following your 
example, you would know then how 



102 THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 

sincerely your gentle goodness is es- 
teemed ! But you are far away in 
China, perhaps martyred, for no letter 
has come in six months ; and I am home 
here in the garret, — hush ! what step is 
that ? I hear someone walking about 
down-stairs. {Goes to window^ Of 
course ! Amanda has gone off and left 
the back door open. — It*s a man's step ! 
It's a burglar ! He*s going through all 
the rooms, one after the other ! {Foot- 
steps heard indistinctly^ Burglars are 
dangerous, and always kill when they 
are detected ! If I should call out he 
would come up here and kill me, — so I 
won't. He's on the floor below ! Oh, 
— if he should find the garret stairs and 
come up ! I'll arm myself and be pre- 
pared for the worst. If he comes in 
here I must defend myself. I'll hit 
him with this poker ! It will do very 
well, provided he has no firearms. Let 
me get something to throw at him first ; 



THE MILD MONOMANIAC. IO3 

— here, this jug is heavy. He might 
die from a blow with such a big piece 
of china, — China, — where Henry is ! 
Good-by, Henry ! — {^Steps become dis- 
tinct and groiv louder^ He*s found the 
garret stairs!— HE'S COMING UP! 
{Hysterically standing on the sofa, with 
the comforter still about him, and brand- 
ishing the poker and the china jar . ) 
COME ON, VILLAIN, FM READY 
FOR YOU ! {Key turits and door opens. 
Enter a long-faced dominie^ H ENRY ! 

Curtain. 



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